


till i meet you

by windbellows



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Character Study, Gen, So here we are, Worldbuilding, alternately: i think about the weapons mechanic much more than i should, as much of a burden as people make it out to be, game mechanics, i don't see the sword as being, my interpretation of botw link is a little different from most others i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:02:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26473087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windbellows/pseuds/windbellows
Summary: The old Tree shifts, moving with an ancient slowness.You are Link, and you are who you choose to be. Do know this.
Relationships: Fi & Link (Legend of Zelda), Great Deku Tree & Link (Legend of Zelda)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 78





	till i meet you

**Author's Note:**

> something about link and the sword and how the sword ends up in korok forest and how the tree's heart must break every century cause he can never save link from fate but maybe he can now and the dissonance between link's instructions to defeat ganon vs the actual game and the WEAPONS MECHANIC!! i truly think the slate was meant to replace the sword  
> once again i might come back to add more to this who knows  
> 

Link stumbles back from the sword, heart thudding, skin drenched with sweat after only seconds. He trips, falls back onto the sun-warm stone. The old Tree’s gaze is sad where it falls on Link, but it isn’t pitying. 

_There is always a next time, young one,_ he tells him. _Do not take more harm upon yourself._

“So I’m not worthy, then,” says Link. The sword and the grass and the sunbeams blend into one. 

_Is that a bad thing?_

“Not really.”

 _Good. Worth is an illusion._ The old Tree shifts, moving with an ancient slowness. _Do not let yourself be defined by the sword, or by fate, or ghosts. You are Link, and you are who you choose to be. Do know this._ <

From the moment he woke up, the largest certainty in Link’s life was that he was Link; this was his body, and his voice, and the face that looked back from the water’s surface was his own. He had been told he was a Champion, and to be a Champion he needed the sword that seals the darkness, and to be _Link_ he needed that sword, and of course only the legendary Champion could wield the sword, and how could he be that Champion if he doesn’t have the sword - but Link feels like Link, and the sword feels like a sword, and he’s freed Divine Beasts already just fine without.

The ghosts of the Champions there, they never commented on his lack of legendary blade. The blights still fought him, those towering nightmares.

In that sunlit valley where the Korok Forest sits Link makes a decision, that he will get the sword when he gets it and when he gets it he’ll get it, and that’s just that.

 _You’re welcome to stay as long as you want,_ says the Deku Tree, later, as Link leans against the stump and closes his eyes. _You can come back here whenever, young one._

“I’m not _that_ young,” he murmurs, half-grinning. 

The Tree laughs, a comforting rumble. _All of you are young, to one as old as me._

\--

Link carries a wide variety of weapons. If there exists a line between taking what one can get and being choosy, the Hero of the Wild walks that exact line. He likes one-handed blades best - they’re good for being quick, and he prefers to be quick, and more often than not two-handed blades are larger than him, and while he can handle them with that peculiar strength of his he prefers not to. He collects spears, scanning them into his slate, and his favorites are those of Zora design. They’re inlaid with pink stones, and they give off a faint glow, even in the deepest of waters. Link holds his breath, and dives in.

There are some he doesn’t use. Mipha’s trident sat in the slate for so long, until finally Link hung it up on the wall of his house, soon joined by the gear of the other Champions. He could use them, but he doesn’t want to break them. They could be fixed, but he refuses. They don’t collect dust. When he visits Link blows the existing layer off, a scourge to dust specks everywhere, and the house is more of a home to them than it is to Link, which he doesn’t mind. They deserve it. 

At the statues he never truly prays, but sometimes he sends prayers for the Champions’ rest, wherever he may be, to whoever might be listening. 

It’s not much of a cluttered house, since whatever Link can carry he carries in his slate, which seems so infinite, but he keeps a torch and a wood-axe behind the stairs, covered in a blanket. They were grabbed from the Plateau, from the fire near the Shrine and the old mossy shack, and the blanket is tinged with something like nostalgia for when the Plateau, now so small, was once so huge. There are a few things Link is hesitant to admit, and one is that he misses when the Old Man was just the Old Man. 

He _has_ told Beedle, one of his most trusted friends, who has never blinked twice at him. Link doesn’t mind if people grant him odd looks - it’s normal to him, to do what he does and be who he is, and they’ve all seen weirder, so they shrug it off and scooch over to make room for him at the fire, or the inn - but he likes Beedle, and Beedle likes him. 

He leans against the Tree. He comes back; he always does. Link is told to go forward, to keep going to completion, and he likes the places where he can return to. The pine tree chill of Rito Village; Lurelin, where the sunset is brightest. He’ll sit, somedays, on top of the lookout post and gaze out to the sea. There’s the Hebra cabins and their welcoming hearths, and there’s the shack on the Plateau, now empty.

(But there’s a Korok on the chimney, which makes it a little bit better.)

And there’s the Forest, of course. He falls asleep, but the Tree does not, and his eyes land on the sword, as they always do. She looks back. 

_You carry ill will towards me,_ she murmurs in her spring water voice. 

“That is not so,” says the Deku Tree. “I hold no love towards the powers that hold him. You are their pawn, just as much as he. I cannot fault you for that.”

_I cannot seem to fault you for that as well._

The Tree wonders if he might have upset her. He sighs, a sorrowful wind. “Not a day goes by, sword of the skies, where I do not regret.”

_You love him._

“How could I not? He is my child.”

 _Not all gods love their children._ For all his years, the Tree forgets that the sword followed Link where he could not, and all he has are the stories cried to the wind. Quiet follows her words, and then the sword continues, _Great Deku Tree, in his lives and mine, I have learned to wish. I wish I were not a burden. I love him too._

_I tried to save him._

“I know,” says the Deku Tree, and the forest weeps dewdrop tears. “I know.” The night is clear over Korok Forest; perhaps the sword senses the stars above, and perhaps she yearns for home.

“You are not a burden, sword of the skies, and he would tell you the same.”

A pause, and then, _Thank you._

\--

Memory weeps like sunlight into Link’s mind amidst the husks of Blatchery Plain. He _died_ , he died so long ago and he had accepted it like everything else - no one had outright said it, but anyone could assume - but Link practically crumbles, shivering despite the warm air, and thinks about the chimes of the sword, and how whoever was in there had awoken for _him._

He wanders a little aimlessly after that, and yet his feet carry him back to the Tree, like they always have. He sinks down against the bark.

 _What troubles you, my child,_ asks the Tree, softly.

“I died,” says Link, plucking at the grass. “I died, a hundred years ago.”

A heavy silence hangs through the forest. _Yes,_ says the Tree, _Yes, you did._

“And the sword saved me.”

_She did, yes._

He takes a deep breath, exhales. “Why?”

_She cares very much for you._

Link inspects a very interesting stalk of grass, green like its brethren. “Me, or the Champion?”

 _It has always been you, Link,_ the Tree murmurs. _No matter what you are._

Tears prickle at his eyes. The Tree shakes with him.

Link gets the sword when he does and when he gets it he gets it, and there’s no epic fanfare, no heralding of a Champion, a _Hero_. No victory is to be found here, just perhaps what might a song in the leaves and the sword, comfortable in his hand. He swings it, experimentally, and it feels like a dance.

And for all the world it’s like he just reunited with an old friend. He lifts the sword to his forehead, feels its starlit chill against his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! please feel free to comment and like!


End file.
